Chapter 21 #2
Knowing Calla was already at work on breakfast, Josephine dressed quickly—wincing at her reflection as she left the cabin.
The house was quiet, the kitchen, too. But the aroma of coffee, the pot angled on a burner, and two loaves of bread rising on the worktable told her Calla had been up for some time. A large pot of water steamed on a back burner.
She poured a cup of coffee and had barely taken a sip when a commotion sounded from behind the house.
She peered out the back window to see Calla in the chicken yard near the coop.
Gathering eggs, she assumed—until Calla suddenly grabbed a chicken by the legs.
The bird squawked and flapped. Calla held it upside down for a minute, and the bird grew strangely calm.
Then, in one swift motion, Calla grasped the bird by the neck and—almost before Josephine realized what was happening—swung it overhead in a sharp, whipping motion.
The chicken went limp, and Josephine’s hand shot to her mouth.
Calla laid the bird on a stump, reached for a hatchet, and—quick as a thought—severed its head. She held the body steady as the blood drained, then caught another bird and dispatched it just as efficiently.
Thinking of the fried chicken she’d enjoyed since arriving, Josephine knew she’d never eat it again so casually. She also knew better than to underestimate this woman. Calla—and Miss Mary—were both forces of nature in their own right.
Josephine opened the back door for her. “Remind me never to get you riled.”
Calla laughed. “I saw you watching. I’m guessing killing chickens ain’t something you’ve done before.”
“How could you tell?”
“Reckon it was that hand shooting up to your mouth that tipped me off. You ever plucked one?”
Josephine just looked at her.
“All right then. Time to learn.” Calla nodded toward the steaming pot. “We’ll just dip these two lovelies in that pot of water for a minute. That’ll loosen up the feathers. Make them easier to pluck.”
“I thought you said we were having pork roast for lunch today.”
“We are. But Sundays are special. Miss Mary likes to serve two meats.”
Calla eased the chickens into the hot water, then lifted them out a minute later, patted them dry, and handed one to Josephine by the legs.
Calla chuckled. “City girl through and through.”
“Yes, but I can learn. Just tell me what to do.”
Calla demonstrated, and Josephine followed suit, starting with the wing feathers, then moving to the breast, back, and legs. The sensation was strange as was the experience, but the conversation between them felt like second nature.
After a few minutes, Calla inspected her work. “Not bad for a first timer. Now let’s finish these at the worktable, then put them in the springhouse till it’s time for roasting.”
After breakfast, Josephine washed the last of the dishes and carried the heavy wash bucket down the back steps.
She dumped the dirty water into the field grass, then paused to rub her shoulders and lower back.
She smoothed a hand over her abdomen. The biscuits and gravy she’d eaten a while earlier, while delicious, had left her a little queasy.
Her thoughts turned toward home, as they often did. To Sarah and her fellow suffragists. To all she’d been forced to leave behind, and to how betrayed they would feel if they knew what she was doing now.
She stared across the fields toward the heavily wooded hills a hefty stone’s throw away, the soothing murmur of Mulberry Creek carrying on the air.
The sweet warble of birds in the trees drew her gaze upward.
The cool morning air was damp, and gray clouds gathering in the west promised yet more rain.
But it was the mist rising from the hollows like torn tufts of cotton lifting on unseen wings that tugged at something inside her.
As backwoods as this place seemed, there was no denying its beauty. Despite that, the helplessness she’d fought to keep at bay crept closer. As did the unsettling sense that Dodge Coburn could see straight through her.
Whoever did this to you should be whipped.
His comment had shaken her in the moment, and it did again.
He hadn’t said “Your husband should be whipped,” but that whoever had done it should be.
Did he not believe she was married? If so, that could prove troublesome.
She would need to be more guarded in his presence, and somehow convince him her story was true.
Just then she heard someone coughing, or gagging more like. Concerned, she scanned the field around the house and the slope toward the creek but saw no one. Feeling the minutes tick past, she emptied the last of the water in the bucket and turned back toward the house.
The salve Calla had given her to apply each morning and night still hadn’t dried, and the air felt chilly on her face.
The concoction, its scent unappealing, did seem to be helping.
Her skin was healing. Yet in some ways the injuries looked even worse now—the wounds tightening and drying at the edges, dark crimson scabs forming over the deeper cuts.
“You decided who you’re going with this morning?”
Josephine turned to see Miss Mary approaching from behind, handkerchief in hand. She hadn’t noticed her leave the house. Josephine glanced again toward the creek, then back, wondering if it was Miss Mary she’d heard earlier.
“Makes no difference to me,” Miss Mary continued. “Go with me and my sister Ophelia and her husband, or with Calla. Both churches teach the Word. That’s what’s important.”
Josephine took a fortifying breath. “Miss Mary, I’m sick and tired of your coercion and have decided not to go, and you cannot force me to do otherwise” was what she wanted to say. But, of course, she couldn’t. Miss Mary held the balance of power.
“I’ll go with Calla this morning,” she responded, though the last thing she wanted was to sit through a sermon as a man went on about God’s loving plans for her life. If this was the Almighty’s loving plan, she definitely thought she could improve on it.
“As I said, matters not to me.”
Josephine waited for Miss Mary to catch up to her. The woman looked a little pale, tired shadows beneath her eyes. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Fine as rain. Now we both best hurry so we’re not late.” Miss Mary hastened her steps and disappeared around the house.
Josephine climbed the back steps, her mind jumping to what Miss Mary’s ailment could be. If it was an ailment at all. She left the wash bucket to drain on the deck and found Calla at the worktable finishing up preparations for Sunday dinner.
“I’ll be ready to go right after I get the flour and spices mixed. I’m glad you’re going with me this morning.”
“Thank you for asking me.”
Calla paused. “You don’t have to put on a face for me. I can tell you ain’t keen on it. You only doing it ’cause of Miss Mary.”
Josephine hesitated. “It has nothing to do with you, or your church.” She gave a little shrug. “I’m just not . . .”
“On good speaking terms with the Almighty?”
“Something like that.”
Calla’s expression softened. “We’ve all been there, so you ain’t alone. And we won’t stay long after. I gotta hurry back to finish dinner.”
“I wish I could help you more with the meals. It’s a lot of work.”
“You are helping! You doing the dishes and cleanup, that’s a good slice of my work gone from me.”
“I meant with preparing. We all know I can’t cook, but I am capable of mixing flour and spices.”
Calla smiled. “Miss Mary made me promise you wouldn’t be coming near her food dishes. But give her time.” She winked. “She’ll soften some.”
“I doubt that.” Josephine lowered her voice. “She doesn’t strike me as a woman who easily changes her mind once it’s set.”
“Oh she don’t, I can promise you that. But she is fair, Josephine.
I know it don’t feel that way now, what with all the hurting and grieving over what you been through.
” Calla brushed the flour from her hands, her voice dropping.
“She got her own reasons for doing things the way she does. And I ain’t one to judge her for them.
Same as I don’t want no one judging me for mine. ”
Josephine heard more in Calla’s words than what she’d actually said. Exactly what reasons of Miss Mary’s was she referring to?
“And just so you know,” Calla continued, looking up. “She didn’t say nothing about me not being able to teach you to cook. On our own time, if you want.”
Josephine smiled. “I very much want.” Then she noticed it again, the tremor in Calla’s right hand. “Are you sure you’re all right, Calla?” she asked, looking down.
Calla followed her gaze, then made a quick fist and shook it loose.
“Oh, I’m fine. Just overdid it. Kneaded two loaves of bread and made biscuits this morning.
” She drained her third cup of honeyed mint tea, snipped a couple of leaves from the potted plant on the sill, and popped one into her mouth.
She offered the other to Josephine. “Might help your stomach some.”
Josephine hesitated before accepting. “How did you know—”
“Saw you out back, rubbing your tummy.” Calla paused, as if she might say more, then continued to the pantry. She returned a minute later. “You ain’t seen a jar of pickled beets anywhere, have you?”
“Beets? No, I haven’t.”
“Hmmm . . .” Another pause. “Could’ve sworn I had one more. I always serve them with my herbed pork roast—adds a good tang. But today, we’ll just have to do without.”
They talked all the way to church and managed to squeeze into one of the last open pews toward the front just before the service began.
To Josephine’s surprise, the congregation was comprised of both colored and white people.
Sitting side by side. On the same pews. Growing up, her family had worshipped with a colored congregation in Atlanta, her father staying afterward to offer legal help—always pro bono.
And though she would have preferred to avoid yet another familiar sermon, sitting with Calla did much to soften her resistance.
Until she looked around. And saw Dodge Coburn.